Allen woke up the next morning with a strange mixture of excitement and dread swirling in his gut. The thin mattress beneath him groaned as he shifted, sunlight streaming through the threadbare curtains that barely hung onto the window frame. His apartment was… well, it wasn't exactly luxurious. Calling it modest would've been generous. The walls were a washed-out beige, chipped in places, and the small kitchenette was just a counter, a stove with two working burners, and a fridge that hummed loudly, as if constantly on the verge of giving up.
He rolled over, rubbing his eyes, and let out a long sigh. His head still buzzed from the adrenaline of last night's performance. For the first time in what felt like forever, he'd been back on stage, guitar in hand, and the crowd… they hadn't hated him. They'd actually applauded. That thought brought a small smile to his lips, despite everything else.
His stomach growled, breaking the peaceful morning. Right. Food. His fridge didn't have much—some bread, a half-eaten takeout container, and a couple of cans of soda. Not exactly a gourmet breakfast, but it would do. He pulled himself out of bed, stretching out the knots in his back from a night on the lumpy mattress, and padded over to the kitchen. Toast it was.
As he popped the bread into the toaster, he took a moment to glance around the apartment. It had all the charm of a college dorm room, except without the hopeful energy. There was a second-hand couch shoved against the far wall, covered in a mismatched quilt, and a coffee table cluttered with sheet music, empty cups, and a couple of magazines he'd found lying around the lobby downstairs. One window overlooked the street, giving him a view of the bustling, chaotic life of Hollywood. The people outside seemed in a hurry, chasing their dreams or just trying to survive another day, like him.
A knock at the door broke his reverie.
"Allen!" The voice was muffled through the door but unmistakable. It was Ms. Sanchez, his landlord. Allen already knew who she was, as he retained some memories from his new life that were necessary for him to fit in. She had the sort of voice that sounded like she'd spent years yelling at her kids and tenants, but there was an edge of kindness in it, like she didn't really enjoy the yelling.
He groaned inwardly. Right. Rent.
He shuffled to the door, running a hand through his messy hair before cracking it open. Ms. Sanchez stood in the hallway, arms crossed over her chest. She was in her late fifties, with short, tightly curled hair, wearing a floral apron over a baggy T-shirt. She looked at him with a raised eyebrow.
"Good morning, Ms. Sanchez," Allen said, trying his best to sound cheerful.
"Morning," she replied, but there was no mistaking the look in her eyes. "Just a reminder, your rent's due in two weeks. A thousand dollars."
"A thousand," Allen repeated, as if saying it would somehow make the number less painful. He forced a smile. "Yeah, I've got it under control."
Ms. Sanchez gave him a skeptical look, her lips twitching into the faintest smile. "Good to hear. Just make sure it's on time. You know I'm not one to wait." She turned and started down the hall, then paused. "By the way, you sounded good last night."
Allen blinked, caught off guard. "Wait, you were there?"
"I run that place," she said with a shrug. "Not just apartments, you know." With that, she walked away, leaving Allen standing there, stunned.
Of course she did. Hollywood really was smaller than it looked.
As he closed the door, the weight of reality hit him. A thousand dollars in two weeks. It wasn't an impossible amount, but it felt like a mountain when you had no stable income. Sure, he'd made a hundred bucks at the open mic last night, but that was a far cry from what he needed.
He grabbed his toast, now cold, and sat down at the cluttered table, absentmindedly munching on it as he stared out the window. The sun was climbing higher into the sky, people moving faster on the sidewalks below. He needed a plan, something that could get him the money quickly without ending up back in a dead-end job like the one at the convenience store.
As if on cue, the familiar ping of the system echoed in his mind, and the blue screen flickered into existence in front of him. He had almost forgotten about it in the rush of yesterday, but there it was, a glowing reminder that this new life came with some very unusual perks.
"Welcome, Allen," the system said in its cool, neutral tone. "You have completed your first task: perform at a live event. Your reward has been credited. New quest available."
Allen leaned back in his chair, raising an eyebrow. "Alright, system," he muttered. "What's next?"
The screen shifted, showing him a new quest:
"Quest: Record a Demo
Objective: Record and submit a demo to a music producer.
Reward: 500 Showbiz Points, 250 dollars."
"Record a demo?" Allen mused, scratching his chin. "Well, that's… doable."
At least it was something he could manage. He still had his guitar, and while the apartment wasn't exactly a recording studio, he could make it work. The real challenge was figuring out where to submit it. Hollywood was full of producers, right? He just needed to find one willing to give a guy with no connections a chance.
"Okay," he muttered to himself, pacing the small space. "First, I need to record something. Then, I need to find a producer. And then… somehow convince them I'm worth listening to." He laughed under his breath, shaking his head. "Piece of cake."
He set the toast down, grabbed his guitar from its case, and sat back on the couch, tuning the strings carefully. His fingers moved instinctively, finding the chords of an old melody he used to play. The notes filled the room, a soft, melancholy tune that echoed off the bare walls. He closed his eyes, letting the music guide him.
The system pinged again.
"Showbiz Points: 500
Available Skills: Songwriting (Basic), Vocal Talent (Intermediate), Charisma (Basic), Appearance (Improving)"
"Improving?" Allen raised an eyebrow at that. "Are you trying to say I wasn't good-looking before?"
The system, unsurprisingly, didn't respond.
He chuckled, shaking his head. The skill categories made sense—he could use points to boost his abilities, but with only 500 points, he had to be careful where he invested them. His vocals weren't terrible, but they could definitely use a boost if he was going to stand out.
"Let's put a few points into songwriting and vocals," he muttered, glancing at the screen. "I'll need them both for this demo."
The blue interface shimmered as the points were allocated. Allen immediately felt something shift inside him—his voice felt clearer, more controlled, and new melodies started to form in his mind, almost as if they'd been hiding there, waiting for the right moment.
"Alright," he said, a grin spreading across his face. "Let's get to work."
He spent the next few hours in a creative frenzy, strumming chords, jotting down lyrics, and tweaking melodies until the song began to take shape. It was a simple tune, heartfelt but catchy, something that felt true to him. By the time the sun had moved past its peak, the demo was nearly complete.
Allen leaned back, wiping a bead of sweat from his brow. His fingers were sore from hours of playing, but it felt good. Productive. The song was rough, but it had potential. Now, he just needed to record it.
That, of course, was the tricky part. His apartment wasn't exactly soundproof, and he didn't have any professional recording equipment. He frowned, glancing around. There had to be something he could use.
His eyes landed on his old smartphone sitting on the coffee table. "It's not a studio mic," he muttered, "but it'll do for now."
He set up the phone, positioning it in front of him as best he could, and hit record. The first take was shaky, but as he played it back, he could hear the raw potential. It wasn't polished, but there was heart in it. A couple more takes, and he was satisfied.
"Alright," Allen said, letting out a long breath. "Demo recorded. Now to find a producer."
That, of course, would be another adventure entirely.
For now, though, he allowed himself a moment of satisfaction. He was moving forward, one step at a time. Sure, he had no idea how the next two weeks would play out, but he'd survived worse. He had a plan, a goal, and for the first time in a long time, he had hope.
And that, Allen thought with a smile, was more than enough to keep going.